


à des choses mauvaises

by Arianne, patrexes



Series: Kinktober 2019 [17]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Blood and Injury, Kinktober 2019, M/M, Masturbation, Self-Harm, Sexual Fantasy, woundfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-21 13:37:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21075773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arianne/pseuds/Arianne, https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrexes/pseuds/patrexes
Summary: In the still of night when sleep eluded his grasp, Aymeric thought of Estinien.





	à des choses mauvaises

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: scars

In the still of night when sleep eluded his grasp, Aymeric thought of Estinien—Nidhogg, he corrected himself, though confined to his thoughts in the privacy of his bed none would know he still thought of Estinien with fondness. To Aymeric’s detractors, it had been blight enough upon his character that he did not condemn Estinien the moment he deserted his post some years ago—those detractors who had long suspected him a product of nepotism and motivated by a lust for power, sure enough of Aymeric’s character to attempt assassination. To them Aymeric supposed Estinien was little more than his pawn; that bearing the eyes of Nidhogg he might enforce Aymeric’s will. To be known to long for a dragon—for what else would Estinien be called, when all had heard tell of his transformation?—may yet be enough to shatter the fragile peace Ishgard had struck only within its own walls.

Aymeric had resolved upon himself hearing of Estinien’s disappearance, and each day since, that he be prepared to deal the killing blow should Estinien return to threaten Ishgard. It could be no greater sin than patricide.

The likelihood weighed heavy on his heart, and Aymeric much doubted that by Her grace he would be spared the blood on his hands a second time. No, Ishgard would be a beacon to Nidhogg’s rage, and when the wyrm had eroded Estinien’s will and he could no longer resist its lure, Aymeric would draw his blade; he had promised Estinien that much. No matter his resolve their fight would be a struggle, and should Aymeric fall, so too would the nascent republic. He would die at the beast’s hand—or worse, he would not, but survive to be carried off to what fate awaited the heretics of legend. The potentiality appeared to Aymeric as clearly as a memory: gorged on Estinien’s blood Aymeric would lie with him, and that if the dragon did not simply overpower him on the stones before the Congregation. He would be stripped, pinned by unnatural strength, _taken_—

Lust was a sin to be forgiven: when Aymeric took himself in hand he had thought of Estinien, and had never acted upon it despite the opportunities and Estinien’s own willingness. That temptation he knew well—but Estinien had been well and truly corrupted in body and almost certainly in soul, and Aymeric could not turn his thoughts away.

His first days in the Vault he had denied the accusations of the Heavens’ Ward with fervor; by the time of his rescue he knelt as often as he was allowed, hands clasped and praying Halone’s forgiveness. But She had not seen fit to deliver him: while his companions ushered in peace for all Ishgard, here Aymeric laid proving his heresy true. The Heavens’ Ward had been dissolved, and their prisoners freed and given into the chirurgeons’ care; Thordan no longer ruled; the Halonic doctrines were to be studied and the teachings of the Church revised; a treaty with Hraesvelgr’s brood no longer seemed an impossibility—a new world in which a known heretic might be elevated to his late father’s station, the city entrusted to his judgment.

His body still ached with the evidence that not all carried that trust.

The chirurgeon who cut the stitches from his stab wound not a day ago had said in another week’s time it would heal, dutifully kept clean and dressed. Pink and raw still, rimmed by green bruising, it pulled at the unbroken skin around it like an ill-fitting garment, threatening—or seeming to—at any time to burst. But it no longer felt like a strain to sit upright even for hours at a time, and Aymeric’s work would hardly have permitted him leave his desk besides: he was simply grateful Lucia and the others had stopped urging him to return to bed, where awaited him only nightmares and little enough rest. Aymeric had not had a night yet, lying alone with the drapes drawn to ward off what he might of the chill, that he felt more acutely the grief that Estinien was not beside him to warm it, even in the chaste sense.

Perhaps if he thought of Estinien—_Estinien_, not the wyrm which meant to have him—Aymeric would yet find rest.

He ran his hands down his body, letting himself imagine they were not his but Estinien’s, calluses on his palms a different pattern for all their hands were quite alike in size and proportion. Estinien would touch him like this: soft, lingering, the pads of his fingers following the line of his ribs, the defined shapes of musculature. The touch would be careful, reverent, with all of Estinien’s care for Aymeric bleeding into it, every concern he tried so hard to bury. He—Aymeric did not _want_ to be touched like that. He hardly deserved it.

His fingers lingered over the scar, the raised tissue uneven to the touch, the texture very nearly—Aymeric imagined suddenly vivid, what if this were his own heretical transformation—like a _scale_. It stung to be touched, like a bruise but deeper still, a burn that ached to his core even as it stirred his cock. Why else would he react so but to turn from the Fury, as the Scriptures taught; but what else could be expected of a heretic—of a monster even the Ward could not purify?

In the absence of a proper scourge he dug his nails into the wound, pressed _in_ and _in_ and _harder_ in some mockery of intimacy until the scar tissue separated from the unbroken skin, opened up a new wound at the edges of the last (and here it was, his sickness _spreading—_) and the blood on his fingertips, the sting of the open wound wasn’t enough. 

Were his fingers claws he could rend his own flesh, wearing his repentance at the cost of yet further evidence of his sin; were they Nidhogg’s perhaps it could give Estinien, buried somewhere deep beneath the dragon’s power, closure which had been denied him, and in its own way that was a calming thought. The flesh of the open wound was soft around Aymeric’s fingers, and the deeper he pressed them in to feel the ache of it, the more desperately it clung to his knuckles, sucked him in even as it wept blood, the line of the wound tight around the intrusion but accepting of it. The twist of his fingers inside of him was a pain nearly as sharp as the knife had felt, satisfying in a way Aymeric did not care to investigate further when he curled them beneath layers of muscle and fat and flesh to find the hole inside of him. He could see the bulge of his fingers underneath the skin, unclear yet tangible, as something caught beneath the ice.

Nidhogg’s claws would break through his skin—would break _him_, take him and use him as cruelly as he deserved. Three of Aymeric’s own fingers would be nothing compared to Estinien—Nidhogg—_Estinien’s_ thick cock, the roughest fuck he could give himself but a _fraction_ as brutal, as quick—and, _oh_, of all the perversions Nidhogg had wrought upon Estinien’s body, the thought of his transformed cock was the worst of all, leaving Aymeric’s stomach roiling for shame even as he longed to touch himself. His cock was hard, heavy with tainted blood at the most despicable turn of his imagination—it was an insult to Estinien to be so interested by the ways his possession might be evidenced, and yet Aymeric could not stop himself. 

In his fantasy, Estinien’s claws cut into his upper arms as Aymeric was pinned down, and his cock had grown hard, sharp spines along the head—it had very simply _grown_, so large and thick at the root it was akin to Aymeric’s forearm. He would not take Aymeric’s ass—_couldn’t_ take it, too tight, too dry—but instead the wound, and it would tear around his cock and the pain would be unimaginable but Aymeric would only beg for more as he fucked the gash, came inside his abdominal cavity, filling up that yawning emptiness, dirtying him in a way that nothing else could achieve. 

Fingers fucking a brutal pace into the gash, bruising organs he couldn’t name but so desperately needed the pain of, Aymeric spilled untouched. He slipped to his knees upon the floor with blood on his hands, spend on his thighs, tears on his lashes, and a prayer on his tongue. _O Halone, blessed among the Twelve, absolve us sinners now and upon the time of death…_


End file.
